


how someone could have chosen

by alpacas



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers, and then they got old and died only because they were bored with being sexy bamfs, spoilers for 7.05, yet another here is my headcanon for what happened fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacas/pseuds/alpacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years in New York, and the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. how someone could have chosen

Amy arrives in the past eight days before Rory, and they are the worst eight days of her life. She stalks the graveyard, checking and double-checking each stone. He's not there—so he's not dead. Yet. Already? What if he's in the room? What if she is still too late? She makes trips to Winter Quay but can't find it, mugs someone badly for money, lets him think she's a pro, takes his wallet and runs, sprints away, and goes back to the graveyard. She spends the first two days in as close to a blind panic as she's ever been, jumping at every noise and unable to think, unable to do the maths in her head, count back the years on the stone—but it didn't say the year he'd died, how could they have not put that on, who had not put that on (what if he dies  _today_ ). She just gave up her life on a gamble, and she lost.

By day four, she's calmed down. Rory must not have arrived in the past yet, she decides (if he has and just has given up on stalking the graveyard—no, no, he wouldn't've done, not her Rory). She'll just wait for him until he arrives. A year or two, what's the fuss? She can wait for him. Great views of the New York skyline from here, prime-o real estate. He's started to get a bit self conscious about their age difference lately, a whole two years what a cradle robber, and a nice quiet Waiting will even that out. She calms herself and doesn't let herself pace. There's shops a short walk from the graveyard; she goes and buys herself a piece of cake with the last of her stolen money, asks about waitressing, shows some leg, and then spends fifteen minutes trying to convince Mrs Winters that no, women in Scotland really do wear trou—pants—all the time, it's perfectly acceptable there, really. She gets the job when she promises to buy a skirt, and walks back to the graveyard saying  _pants pants pants_ until it sounds American.

On the eighth day, she's making the rounds of her graveyard again, swallowing against her sore throat and visiting all her favourites and wondering how the hell Rory didn't get bored to death with the box, when there's a weird sound, or not sound, like the air pressure briefly changed, and her ears ring and he's just lying there when she turns, sits up slowly and rubs his head, and he looks confused and then he looks at her and she tears her new stockings when she runs, skids, tackles him before he can even stand. It's all arms and limbs and he's very confused and keeps trying to tell her how confused he is, but every time he tries to talk, Amy is unfortunately reminded that they are not kissing, and they should be, and he has no counter-argument to that.

 

 

Amy spends the next week with a terrible cold, which is probably not surprising given that she'd been living outside in the damp. She's unable to sleep with her ears clogged and nose filled with, apparently, lead, and her tossing and turning keeps Rory awake too. It's easy, by now, to just jump into whatever circumstance they find themselves, another adventure with the Doctor, but they lie awake in their tiny bed with the thin mattress and springs, her trying not to keep sniffling and him trying not to get mad at her for keeping him awake, curled together, legs tangled and Rory's heart beating—muffled, stupid cold—into her ear. It's 1958. They're not sure why they didn't go as far this time, but no complaints—they're both glad to have gotten to skip the second World War. They list things they miss from home: Air conditioning. Television. Television with colour and more than two channels. Microwaves. Processed food. The Wii. Those fancy foam mattresses. Mattresses that aren't this one. Cold medicine. Rory tries to explain to her how the cold works, and Amy gets cross and yawns and tries to pop her ears.

She keeps waitressing, dressed correctly now. Rory discovers that there is no such thing as a male nurse in 1950s America, gets really, very upset about this, and more so when Amy tries to suggest he just say he's a doctor instead. Yes, she knows it's not nearly the same thing either—and they have their first real argument, a big one, and then he finds a job in the mail room of an office, and they make up. About a month later, their landlord comes up with a package for them, return address not given, name Melody. The ten seconds it takes for him to leave the room are the longest of Amy's life, and she rips the box open before Rory's even properly across the room.

There is a letter on top. River apologises for the delay; it's still hard to get a good fix on New York, temporally. It might be a year or two before she can visit properly, even getting this through was difficult. (It's not like her to apologise about that, Rory says with his usual positive energy, and Amy slaps at his arm and keeps reading, she's just worried about us—) The Doctor is doing fine, River continued, and gives the name of the girl he's travelling with now, promises that she is very good and they would like her. River then spends a paragraph talking about her life, how she likes teaching, being a professor, but still can't believe she has to do it, as a job, whatever happened to that car thief from Leadworth?—and they smile—and then says her goodbyes, and hopes the rest of the package will help them. She signs the note Melody.

The box contains fake ID, birth certificates, American social security cards and paperwork claiming they came here from Britain just after the war. It also contains an absolutely alarming amount of cash, especially by 50s standards, and a book, publish date 2008, the kind of joke book you find on coffee tables, promising to translate English into American. (Pants pants pants pants pants.) One of the pages has a business card used as a bookmark: a New York address and company name, UNIT. On the back, in River's handwriting: _In case you get bored._

 

 

They get very bored. 

Years pass. They buy a flat—sorry, apartment—and Amy relishes the invention of mini-skirts, even if she's getting a bit too old to wear them without feeling kind of weird about it. They talk about adoption, maybe having a kid or two, get caught up in the space race and attend several parades celebrating the astronauts. When the Beatles debut in the states, they go to see. Amy starts writing, journalism again, mostly fluff pieces. She gets a column in one paper talking about British Life, which makes her feel rather old and frumpy, and then the American Civil Rights movement hits and she writes about that, instead, a lot. She gets threatened and called names and goes to rallies and, in a strange way, has more fun than she's had in years. At first they'd worried about causing an impact on history, but now they just live it, and she does what she wants. Now and then, she goes to the American branch of UNIT, where Rory has found his nursing—well, medical officer—job at last, and works freelance for them. She goes to Area 51 and is hit with odd deja vu, talks with the British branch by phone, sometimes about the Doctor, and becomes—along with Rory—one of UNIT's leading experts on alien life. River comes to visit when she can.

In the late 60s, Rory calls Amy and asks her to come in, right away. She rushes to UNIT headquarters and finds Rory, arms crossed, listening to several of the higher ups talk. Her ears prick up when they mention a Lethbridge-Stewart (like Kate?), and she gives Rory a look; he responds with one indicating  _keep listening._  Turns out there's an alien in a spaceship shaped like a police box that was causing a bit of a stir over in England. They probably can't talk to the Doctor, they decide, but they do decide they can keep tabs on him, without attracting attention or letting him know. Amy starts going by  _Williams._  From the picture the Brigadier sent over, it's another regeneration, but there's no need to get the Doctor excited over Ponds early if he should hear the name.

 

 

In 1969, they're sitting curled up on the sofa watching the moon landing, when the image changes and

Oh.

_Oh._ And then neither of them can remember what they saw, but they remember what it  _was_ , and now a lot of things about 1969 make more sense. They compare notes and memories and try to piece out what the Silence have erased, retroactively, and get UNIT in on it. They spend months building a file on the enemy, and even manage to get a couple of dead ones—Amy thinks, she can't quite be sure, but she thinks maybe they did—and it turns out it's easier to remember them when you've never seen them, are only going from stories and heresy, so Amy writes down a lot, and it gets published as a horror story, pen name A Pond (which makes Rory laugh), and suddenly she's a novelist. They lie awake in bed, talking about it. How briefly, past versions of themselves were near; how they hadn't known, had never known, that they were there in the future, too. A few months later, when they're reasonably sure it's all over, Rory has UNIT look up, and then recruit one Canton Everett Delaware III, who is more than slightly unnerved to see Amy and Rory again, suddenly twenty years older.

 

 

Towards the end of the year, they get a note from River. A date, time, and an address. Amy goes alone, curious, promising to tell Rory what she finds. She misses the regeneration, but comes home with their daughter.


	2. to go the lengths i've gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melody, until the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh, this is probably. a lot less cheerful than the first part. i almost posted it as its own story but in the end- i don't know. i hope you like it. i mean, it's still a happy ending, i think.
> 
> there might be one more, tiny part after.

Melody is not the scared girl in the space suit, River come to visit, or Mels, small again. She has long brown hair and eyes that look straight out of Rory's side of the family, and honestly speaking, Amy doesn't quite know what to make of her for a while. She's maybe seven, she's quiet and suddenly angry in bursts, she sits in her bedroom and speaks when spoken to. She recognises Amy from the photos—she says—and accepts her as her mother, but Amy doesn't really know how to deal with her all at once, like this: she loves her and it hurts, but this is not a baby, or Mels, or River. It's worse with Rory, who Melody had no photos of. He tries giving her things and she stares, he crouches down and she turns away. It breaks Amy's heart. They start arguing again.

They know what will happen next, but they don't know how or when: it's 1970, and this Melody is white. Amy wishes for a clue from River, but none arrives: can't cross your own timeline, she reflects bitterly, and wonders what will happen to her daughter. They talk about maybe trying to get some sort of- help, information, clues, _anything,_ but Amy is still wary about psychiatrists, and neither of them are sure about 1970 standards anyway. They fight more, a desperate, terrible yelling, and it's not like before, because they can't split up, they won't, she will  _never,_ but there's no one else they can scream to. Here is their dream at last, and Melody is passively indifferent to it.

Six months after bringing her home, Amy is walking home from the supermarket. For once she's not worrying much—she's thinking about the oncoming storm of disco, actually—until she sees the Eyepatch Woman on the stoop, prim and composed and smiling. She wants to simultaneously run and scream and kill her for a second time, but just manages to stand, and that feels like an accomplishment. "Don't worry," the woman assures her, she can't think of her with a name, can't give her that, she's a thing, a beast, a—"just checking in."

It's like being in the room again, frozen and terrified, because this isn't River's safety, this is Melody's, and she's not Captain Pond and she's so much older now. But, the woman continues, brisk and smiling like this was planned, a teacher making a house call, everything is fine. It will be  _good_ for Melody to spend some time with her parents. It's a pity it wasn't possible sooner, but all the more reason to make up for it now. Naturally, in a few years—perhaps when she's of age?—they'll need her again, but there is absolutely no reason she shouldn't grow up in a loving home. She seems to be doing well. And it's phrased like a compliment, like it's a surprise, and that's what gets Amy defrosted and moving, of  _course_ she's doing fine, how  _dare_ —

And then there's something, and- something? And she forgets a bit, and she's standing on the street alone, this lovely, peaceful, row of brownstones and trees and cars (and her groceries have been apparently thrown at a wall?), and Amy can't remember and then she's screaming for Rory.

They know what will happen next.

 

 

 

They can't get UNIT involved. They want to, they talk about it, they argue about it, but it's a different arguing, working out what to do as opposed to tearing at one another. In the end: no. UNIT could help, would help, but there is just too much risk of the Doctor noticing, and by latest reports he has settled down, lost the ability to leave Earth at all, and is probably itching for something like this to notice or do. It's the same reason they've avoided telling UNIT who they are besides what the papers River forged for them said years ago, the same reason they've sworn Canton to keep the secret. He's a possibility, he knows who Melody is, but what could he do? What could anyone do? Can they run? Can they hide? Can they  _fight?_ In the end they do nothing, continue their lives as usual, hope that something presents itself in the years to come.

They don't tell Melody. There, at least, things get better. After the first year passes, she opens up, forgives them for not finding her sooner. Rory teaches her cards and lets her win (or he is just that bad—they debate this furiously, they do). Amy brushes her hair and takes her clothes shopping and tries to be maternal. After a while, it doesn't take effort. Melody is still quiet and wary, but asks questions and likes stories. She's too young to ask questions about herself, much, and they're glad for the time to think of answers. When she's about nine, she (accidentally) has her first adventure, a factory her class is having a field trip to is actually a cyberman conversion plant in the making. She escapes on her own and leads her class to safety while her parents and Canton stop the lines; she is impressed and says to a friend in Amy's earshot: _That's my mom and dad._ She's never been prouder in her life. (Even if, as Rory points out, Melody's accent is growing slightly- not one of theirs.)

In '75, Canton moves to Chicago to lead the set up of a new UNIT headquarters. They're happy for him, of course, but it's been five years of him and Aaron coming around for dinner nearly every weekend, so it still feels like a loss. Melody is in school by now, and Amy is still writing thrillers. She lugs the typewriter to bed with her and mourns the still lack of laptops in the world, types awkwardly and keeps Rory awake. She starts using her full name more, it just feels more—mature, professional, grown up, and Rory calls her Amy anyway and it starts to feel private and nice. Rory keeps his job at UNIT, but starts studying again, talking about qualifying for Nurse Practitioner. He joins, and Amy laughs for about a week, a society for recognition of male nurses, which he insists is serious and she just finds hilarious, even if maybe it's not. 

One day, Amy brings up the idea of moving back to Britain. It's sort of come up before, in moments over the years. Talks about what you miss from home, and then what you miss from England, when home became New York. How nice it'd be to see this, or that, again. They can't risk the Doctor's timeline, but—  _but._ So long as they're buried in New York, it won't break anything, right? Hell, so long as there  _is_ a gravestone… it's not something they talk about much, the gravestone, because whenever they do, Amy sees the name and the age and starts doing math, and it's decades away but less each year. If you put it like that, Rory points out, then maybe we never die at all, and the stone's just a prank. She smiles, but- they're hardly living in retirement like she might've imagined, but she thinks those sorts of things  _are_ behind them.

In the end, they wait until after receiving word that the Doctor has regenerated and no longer works for UNIT before making the move. 

 

 

 

Melody is now a teenager. She asks the questions now, and Amelia tries to answer them. Where she was born. Why she was taken. Who the Doctor is. Aware of what's to come, she tells the stories as well as she can, but she's not sure Melody is convinced. She's become their daughter, and friendly, and open—but. But. There are times she still feels like a long-term guest. She has affection, but isn't affectionate. And anyway, teenagers, Amelia is realising, are pretty terrible. She stomps around and sulks and picks fights just to pick them. She starts dating, which is just awkward, although it is slightly wonderful to see Rory try for and fall very short of  _intimidating and stern_ when he tries to put her off it. They settle down in Essex and semi-retire from UNIT, keeping in touch and consulting now and then. They finally meet the Brigadier in person after years of phone conversations, and eventually meet some other people who Amelia tries not to be too obviously fascinated by. UNIT knows she knows about the Doctor, but they've kept how and why a secret, and it's vey hard to keep that secret when talking to Sarah Jane Smith, still hopeful he'll come back for her. Amelia thinks a few people suspect, but no one ever asks directly, and the Doctor's visits to UNIT grow more and more sparse in the 80s. She's sure, by now, anyway, that even if they did meet, nothing about Mrs Amelia Williams will catch his attention, and it makes her hurt, but is also, somehow a tiny bit of a relief. It was so long ago.

 

 

 

They come for Melody when she's of age. 

They've braced themselves for years—and maybe that's why, she questions everything, after, but maybe that's why, maybe Melody  _knew_ , somehow, and that's why she looked so angry, then, why she'd never really let herself settle and plan: she knew her parents would give her away again. She argues and says things that are no better for being completely true, and she punches the woman in the eyepatch which is the only good thing—I don't  _want_ to go, she keeps screaming, and—

And time doesn't break, Amelia's memories don't change, and she knows what happens next, even once Melody is gone, the house is wrecked, and she's shaking and crying and Rory is trying and failing to not do the same. Melody will regenerate now, hate the Doctor, become Mels, and somehow end up in Leadworth. They didn't fight because they knew the end. Oh, they should have fought anyway. Oh, they should have.

It's not much of a surprise when River appears very shortly after; Demon's Run, thirty years later. The child is lost, the timeline is set, and River it telling them it'll be fine, that they know it all now, that it's okay, but it's not. She doesn't remember much of it, she says, but that she was told it was the Doctor's fault they had to take her away, and Amelia drinks cold tea and hates, and Rory keeps looking at River oddly, and finally comes out and says it: "This is the first time we've been older than you."

Oh, how young she was when the graveyard was the worst week of her life.

 

 

 

In the later half of the eighties, they decide to move back to New York. River is visiting more than she ever has, now that her timeline has been completed once again, and now that they can say  _this is our daughter, River_ , and no one thinks anything of their ages. It isn't bad at all. Rory is Nurse Practitioner and refuses to retire, Amelia writes terrible mystery novels full-time, pulpy, ridiculous stories that count as guilty pleasures for both herself and her audience, she wears glasses and they both have wrinkles, and if anyone asks, they named River that because, well, it was the sixties. They buy a house on Long Island and start fostering children, retire fully from UNIT but still end up visiting and consulting. But it's no longer the rush, the priority that it had been, and Amelia finds herself—not less interested, but less energetic, about it.

They buy a home computer as soon as they're available, and a microwave before anyone else they know. They spend the afternoon cooking things in it, potatoes and eggs and vegetables, and feel like they've arrived in the future.

Sometimes Amelia can't remember the Doctor's face. Can't remember his smile, the way he looked at her, the way he'd kiss her forehead and call her Pond. It was so long ago. Sometimes she thinks about Melody, taken from them again, and can almost hate him too. But mostly it's sad, like a parent who died years ago. She thinks about him every day, even when she doesn't mean to. A tweed jacket, or a laugh, or something he'd like, or hate, or judge. She wants to ask him things, wants to ask him what became of him, what he thinks of this or that or microwaves. What his past regenerations were like, what became of that scarf, what he wanted as a child and what it's like to become so old. But it's far away now, distant, because he's gone and she's gone, and they're dead to one another. She wonders if he ever thinks of her, too, or Rory, or anyone else he's loved.

 

 

 

Rory gets sick and dies. For real this time, she teases him a few days before, and it's funny. She cries and they say things for the last time, and she misses him every second of every day. He apologises before he goes, to her and River both, sitting at his bedside, and it's okay because it is okay, because he doesn't have to, because he lasted a good fifty years without falling into an open sewer or something, and because Amelia is almost happy, that he doesn't have to be the one outliving her and waiting. He goes peacefully, without pain, with Amy and River at his side.

The funeral is lovely. Lots of friends, lots of coworkers, Rory's always been the sort people just like. A few people from the British branch of UNIT even turn up, including the Brig and Sarah Jane, and Amelia wants to tell them everything, more than anyone, more than any time before. But she doesn't. 

She misses him so much, but without the desperation of youth, the dramatics and tears and desire to follow him, gamble her life for the last time. River more or less moves in for a month or two, and they talk and more frankly than ever before. River's stopped talking as much about the Doctor over the years as per their silent request, but she does now, sharing everything, going over adventure and adventure and adventure. And Amelia sits in her chair and wears her glasses and listens. One last wait. 

 

 

 

One day, River appears while Amelia is in the garden. She has a look on her face that means she knows the future, and Amelia thinks, _soon_. "Mother, I was thinking," River says with a smile, and holds out her hand, wearing the manipulator. "One trip isn't going to destroy the universe. What do you think?"

And Amy knows just where she wants to go.


End file.
